


Paint the Moon Red

by orphan_account



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon-Typical Violence, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-12
Updated: 2015-01-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 07:11:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,093
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3165992
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Dean never killed Abaddon and it's her who wakes him up as a demon instead of Crowley, and it's her who takes him under her 'wing' to guide him through his new life; and to possibly get what she wants, which is Crowley's head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paint the Moon Red

**Author's Note:**

> My pinch hit for the spn_reversebang! I flailed over the original prompt when I first saw it during the art previews, but never claimed it because I thought, het? not for me. But when I saw that it was up for grabs I simply couldn't resist, okay? Okay.
> 
> Thank you to stefy_coool for understanding that I am a procrastinator who procrastinates and for being on board with my idea! And thank you to Eve for the beta. I ended up having so much fun writing this, her or not, so I hope you like it, guys!
> 
> Check out the art for this [HERE](http://stefy-coool.livejournal.com/138146.html)!

_if the cold that feels like someone melting ice cubes on his body is death then death it is for him and he likes the peace that the cold somehow brings, and he likes the gaping hole in his chest, he likes the way the impact of the mark fades, but even though he says he’s proud of them, because he sure is, it doesn’t feel like the end of the story he’s been living obediently, it feels like there’s a hand reaching out to him ready to grip him and let it be known that he will not shiver underneath it nor will he fight it._

 

 

 

**i.**

Honestly, she really should have expected this, Abaddon figures as she chips one of her blood-painted nails on the Bunker’s heavy metallic door.

She could be talking about the nail, or the demon sleeping inside Dean Winchester as well. She doesn’t really know which surprises her less.

 

 

**ii.**

As Abaddon slides into the Bunker, the sky only a hole without the moon hanging in it like a heavy earring, she has to admit that the latter has surprised her more. To listen and to hear the soft panicked words of little Sam Winchester as he fake-threatens the King of Hell might just be Abaddon’s highlight of the century.

She breathes in once she’s inside; searches for the bitter smell of Crowley’s cheap suit, finds none; fishes for the spicy smell of cologne rubbed into the stubble of Sam’s face, locates it; breathes in once more just to follow the sweet scent of a demon just upon its waking.

She finds Dean Winchester in one of the rooms. He is beautiful. There is no true life in him, but the Mark speaks to her in tongues, and she has to bite down on her lipstick-covered lips to resist caressing it and clawing at it and eating the flesh raw. Combined with the deep cuts on Dean’s face, with the not-yet-healed knife wound that has taken his life from him, he truly is a work of art. Lying still on the bed, he looks like a painting; she would only need to slide behind him and take him in her arms, pieta-like.

Instead, her heels click against the cold floor, the sound echoing through the room, and she stands by him. He is mine, she thinks. He is mine. She’s happy, so happy she almost swallows her own tongue that she got here before the Scottish clown of a demon.

“Let’s take a howl at that moon,” she whispers, feeling strong affection in the tips of her fingers as she takes the Blade, the one and the only and the greatest, and places it in between Dean’s joined hands.

His eyes shoot open and shine black, the color comparable to the heavy dark shade of the clouded night sky.

Abaddon swoons.

 

 

**iii.**

It’s hard to tell whether Dean Winchester ever made a big deal out of saying thank you. Whatever the truth is, he doesn’t say it now upon waking up from being held frozen and still between life and death.

Abaddon doesn’t mind. It’s the middle of the night but her eyes can see through the dark, and she follows Dean patiently throughout the bunker, watches with delight as he grows accustomed to his new view of the world. She sees him drag his nails across the walls and she momentarily wishes to throw away her own following of Lucifer and her own knighthood; she wants to be Dean, she wants the Mark, and she wants to know what it’s like to walk around with the blood boiling in a completely different way than she is used to.

She’s thrilled.

Abaddon almost wants Dean to kill his brother right here and now, as it would go without a witness, but when he scribbles _Sammy let me go_ without her having to tell him, she feels proud. And she knows there will be a time when the younger Winchester will come begging, so stupidly brave in defending and saving his brother, when she will be able to watch Dean tear off his head and lick the blood off his fingers.

She then takes him to her house – the one whose occupants she had to kill once, and their blood ran like rivers through her spread fingers, and now she knows that Dean can see their fate in the empty walls – all without words.

He thanks her then.

He presses his mouth against hers violently; she is almost glad the Blade is tucked safe inside his jacket. But then she grabs a fistful of his hair, feels the smoothness of it against her skin, and she grins.

She remembers one of their last meetings before this, when she had him kneeling in front of her with just as much control over him. She could have clawed his heart out with merely the tips of her fingers, but she’s now glad she resisted. He said something about making out—his lips were enough of a sinful weapon to let him live, as he was and is dangerous and pretty and that’s a combination she’s never been able to fully deny.

Dean’s hand courageously slips between her legs without much elegance or delicacy, and he bites down on her lip hard, making her moan with the drop of blood that escapes from behind the lipstick disguise, from behind the soft thin skin of her lips.

“Not yet,” she says, her words landing in a breath on his blood-stained tongue. “You’ll have to do something for me first.”

Dean presses against her more, as if hoping his strong hips and strong crotch already fully hard will make her change her mind. His hands grip her hips, bravery and lust masking desperation for a climax and wildness that ripping sheets and thrusting in could calm or satisfy.

He growls low in his throat when she resists without much trouble.

“What is it?” he asks involuntarily after she licks the drawn blood from her lips and it rolls around her mouth.

“You know what I want most,” she responds with a pout. “The question is, will you give it to me?”

The knowledge flashes across his mind—it’s very obvious when he finally gets to it and it settles down. “Crowley,” he breathes, and she wishes she could flinch just hearing that name; except she sighs, enjoying the vengeance echoing through Dean’s voice.

She had heard stories about what it’s like to wake a demon as strong as this—Dean is strong—undoubtedly, if he wanted to, he could pin her against the wall like a butterfly and take her with her heels a few inches in the air. He’s grateful, though; he knows he owes her his strength. She doesn’t see her as a butterfly he could pin, nor as a prize he could win. She now sees, in the genuine determination on his face, that he sees her as his queen. As it should be.

She draws her finger across his pretty face. “I don’t care how many you kill,” she tells him, “as long as you bring me his head. I won’t patrol over you as your sweet brother would, and if you succeed, I will make you my king.”

It must be an attractive prospect, because he nods but doesn’t move until she gives in and grants him another kiss.

 

 

**iv.**

“He’s not coming back to you, darling,” she acclaims and when she sees Sam Winchester’s panicked face that he tries to mask by pursing his lips, she pouts. “Oh, I know. Little Sam is all alone now.”

“I’m not alone,” he growls right back at her, as if he had been expecting mockery.

She decides to let him believe that. But the fact is, it did take him almost five minutes to get her in the handcuffs that are now binding her stitch-ridden wrists together behind her back. Abaddon doesn’t really mind. It’s amusing, if nothing else, and entertaining.

“Either way,” she says and looks to the side, taking in her environment, silently looking for a way to get out of this. It shouldn’t be too hard; she has gotten out of worse situations. “What ever shall you do with me? Torture me? I can’t wait.”

She bares her neck at him, even, as if to tease him. In reality, she is showing him the only mark of affection she used to despise – a violet bruise blossoming just underneath her ear, barely covered by a few loose locks of her red hair. She can still feel the pressure of Dean’s heavy tongue as he kissed her hungrily and tasted her skin, sucked on it till it grew raw and she sighed in pain.

“Where is he?” Sam growls, pressing his precious knife right against the bruise. It’s cold against the heated skin, and she squirms involuntarily.

“Trust me, lover boy,” she says through gritted teeth, hiding a threat in the glare she shoots his way, “you don’t want to meet him now. He would kill you without any sort of foreplay sweet talk we’re doing right now.”

Sam wants to resist, but he bites the words down and it pleases her greatly. It’s good to know that no naïve _Dean would never kill me_ will slip during this conversation, as it would surely serve as comic relief and she would get a good laugh out of it. They both know Dean now would kill him in a heartbeat if it fed the Mark. And it would feed it; for longer than a day or two.

“But where is he?” Sam pushes and presses the blade harder against Abaddon’s skin.

“This is getting annoying,” she acclaims and sighs, but doesn’t dare to move her head. One round of stitches makes her look like a warrior, even though she’s not very happy with them and will want to try and heal them at some point, but two would be very unfashionable, if you ask her.

“Then tell me where he is,” Sam repeats again, truly like a machine.

Abaddon wonders whether he cut and carved into some low-rank demon just to get information on where their Queen is, and for some reason, it seems funny to her, that this giant man would lower himself to such actions, as he had surely always thought himself noble or at least the man to do what he thinks is best.

“He is,” she says, and he sees a flash behind Sam’s back and he can feel Dean’s fresh odor in the air just like Sam can’t, and she grins. She does her best not to look away from Sam’s face, now beginning to sweat. “He is everywhere. Anywhere he pleases to be. And do you know where he’s right now?”

Sam tilts his head in frustration, so obviously fuming, and it makes the situation even more entertaining, one she will laugh about once the handcuffs with the Devil’s Trap carved into them will stop bothering her so much.

“ _Where_ is he right now, then?”

_Behind you_ , she mouths with an amused smirk bringing up the corners of her mouth.

Oh, the look on Sam Winchester’s face is priceless. She stares at him intently for the short nanosecond and does everything in her power to remember the way panic flashes across his eyes, the way his nostrils tremble and fear steals any leftover words right off his lips, opened slightly. She does her best to remember the sudden loud beating of his heart, to remember how it pulses underneath his skin, visible even though hidden in slight stubble.

And then, she drinks in the fight that happens in front of her eyes, angry that her hands are bound and imprisoned and she can’t possibly hold Sam steady so he could take a look at his demon brother before he knocks him out.

Abaddon is itchy, both in the annoyed and the ecstatic way. The fight is glorious.

She watches proudly as Dean eventually brings Sam down to his knees and grabs a fistful of his stupidly long hair, and she smiles when his fist comes down to Sam’s face repeatedly, a steady growl of filth and anger on Dean’s lips as he tells Sam that this has been worthless and he had no right and he is an abomination and Dean hates him oh-so much for trying to control Dean even now.

In the end, Dean knocks Sam out, leaving an uncountable number of bruises and cuts and lip split twice—strangely beautiful in a way, as Abaddon finds all beaten up faces and bodies, because they are raw and delicious and not masking imperfections—and she is satisfied enough with that. For now.

“I believe the key is in his pocket,” she muses and jingles her handcuffs around, liking the sound of silver hitting silver despite the additional pain it brings as the Trap moves across her skin.

Once she gets rid of the handcuffs, she lets Dean take her hands and cradle her wrists for a few seconds.

“Did you find him?” she asks, and hums when one of his hands goes up to her neck and covers the place of her bruise, and the place of a small cut the demon knife has caused. She allows herself to enjoy the attention, allows herself to close her eyes.

“Not yet,” Dean sighs, and the genuine dissatisfaction in his voice makes it okay. After all, they have all the time in the world.

“Let’s go, then,” Abaddon sighs and finally pulls away, although she enjoyed the embrace of Dean’s hands very much.

At home, she lets him undress her and she lets him kiss down her neck and she lets him play with her breasts and she lets him grip her hips. She tugs at his air, pulling some out, but in the end, she lets him kiss the milky white smoothness of her thighs and she spreads her legs as he slips between them, and she closes them around his head, looking down at him and his eyes that shine the perfect black.

She hooks her legs over his shoulders and moans when his tongue twirls in the rightest way, and she comes against his hurting jaw, almost weeps as her fingers knot in his hair and hold him in place till it’s too much to bear.

She repays the favor and after it is all done and they are both sweaty and hungry, both their mouths salty, they kiss long into the night, ignoring the pain of their jaws, or rather, bathing in it.

 

 

**v.**

Abaddon lets him wash her hair, which is an act she hasn’t shared with anyone in a very long time. She doesn’t like people tugging at it, pulling at it when it’s not wanted, but for some reason, she has grown to trust Dean Winchester’s hands.

She leans back against his chest after he positions himself on the edge of the bathtub and stretches out her legs, warm water coming up to lie just underneath her breasts. Reaching for the lavender scented shampoo, his hands stop mid-way and cup them, fingers running underneath them, leaving a whisper of pleasure behind when they leave.

Being naked with Dean Winchester proves to be almost as natural and relaxing as washing her hair.

“How are you feeling?” she asks in a mutter a few minutes into it, her nail drawing circles on his thigh, leaving a fresh red tail behind. She is addressing everything, starting with her skin against his, ending with Dean’s Mark and the needs that come with it. Abaddon doesn’t like that she cares, but Dean’s well-being is now somehow tied to hers, she has chosen it to be this way, and she has no other choice but to care, however terrifying it might be.

“Oh, I’m good,” he drawls quietly, his southern accent coming out in such a pretty way that it makes her skin crawl in a quiet call for that accent to press against her skin in deep-night whisperings, and for her skin to absorb it and feed off it for days.

“Good,” she comments, satisfied. “One of my demons tracked down Rowena today.”

“Should I go get her?” he asks right away. They have discussed Crowley’s mother, and how she could be trouble but worth the risk; she might not know anything about her son’s whereabouts, but she is probably still a strong, although invisible, player in the game.

“No, darling,” she answers with a soft laugh, “I want to talk to her. We’ll go to her together, and you’ll wait outside. I doubt she’s interested in dealing with men.”

After the hair-washing is done, Abaddon softly tells Dean to wait for her and to get dressed. She herself puts on her best leather pants, soft cotton black shirt and a leather jacket with a few studs decorating the shoulders, and she spends a good few slow minutes pinning up her hair until she is satisfied with the way it curls and rests above her shoulders, breathes around her neck like the softest scarf.

Abaddon is the one to drive the car, but Dean is still the one to choose the music; she doesn’t hold grudges against good rock music. In fact, she finds herself listening to it with interest, finds herself tapping her fingers against the wheel to the rhythm, not because she’s anxious but because she can.

They get to the bar Rowena is rumored to own; a rather film-noir looking place, and it tickles Abaddon in all the right places. This used to be her aesthetic, after all. If she could, she would still wear her heavy necklace of large pearls capturing tears of the many she had made cry back then.

“Wait for me here,” she tells him in the same soft voice, and Dean nods, rather obediently.

However, whoever informed Abaddon that Rowena would be here probably did Rowena the same service; the old witch is nowhere to be seen, the bar is empty despite the dark red neon letters illuminating the entrance.

Abaddon is angry, like she hasn’t been in a long time, and she kicks and breaks, shattered bottles and the liquid pouring out of them soaking into broken legs of tables and stools. When the door of the bar bangs closed behind her, it is but a mess, very much like any mess a good film noir fight would perhaps leave behind. Except she didn’t have anyone to fight—only herself and her sudden dissatisfaction. She thought she would have Crowley’s had on a plate by now, decorating the house; she is highly upset that it is not like that still.

She escapes the bar to face another disobedience of sorts; Dean is not waiting for her in the car, he’s pressing a tiny blonde girl against the wall near the entrance, his forearm pressed against her neck.

“Not now,” she seethes and she hopes that his loyalty will prove its presence once more and he will not make her walk up to him and grab him and hit his head against the wall, barely missing the blonde girl’s. She really does not want to do that; scary to think she would probably regret it later.

Dean turns his face to her, a surprisingly pleased smirk on his face. He relaxes, pulls away, and the girl starts to cough, but he recaptures her and squeezes his fingers around her neck. Her eyes flash black in panic, and Abaddon feels stupid for not recognizing the scent of a low-rank demon.

“This little thing knows where Crowley is, right, sweets?” he explains and with the same smirk, he lazily turns back to the girl and tilts his head to the side. “So I suggest we ask her ‘bout it.”

Well, that completely changes the situation, Abaddon decides, and takes a step to stand by Dean Winchester’s side.

 

 

**vi.**

The bright light of the morning envelops them. It shines through the kitchen window, plays with Abaddon’s hair, makes her look radiant and powerful; just as well, it shines upon Dean’s bent back.

She can hear the _drip, drip, drip_ of blood slowly pooling at her feet.

Looking at the Scottish man’s face doesn’t cause her nausea for the very first time, possibly because it’s no longer connected to his robust, funnily short body. The blood _drip, drip, dripping_ from underneath his chin is music to her ears.

“How did you do it?” she asks in awe as her eyes slowly drive up the former king of hell’s face, scrunched up in horror, obscure in its shocked expression during his last chance to breathe in, if he ever had that, and land on Dean’s knuckles, lost between Crowley’s dark hair.

Dean looks up, a smug smirk playing his lips. “Fought with ‘im,” he informs her, “to fuck with ‘im a bit. I’m pretty sure he actually thought he had a chance.”

“But you took it from him,” she says and steps closer, careful not to step in the blood or stand underneath the head still clutched in Dean’s hand, reaching out. She notices he’s holding it in his marked hand, and she curls her fingers around where she knows the Mark to be, squeezing gently. She can feel Dean’s pulse through his dark red shirt, the spot as vulnerable as his neck, as his wrist, as his inner thigh used to be.

“’Course I did. Left him standin’ in the middle of the room, lookin’ for me like an idiot. Stood behind him, took the Blade, cut his head off. Clean job.” He looks proud, saying that.

She hums and her hand slides down Dean’s forearm until it rests on top if his whitened knuckles, Crowley’s hair tickling her little finger slightly. She kneels beside him and takes Dean in a kiss; he drops the head, relishing in her victorious passion, and as he slowly lowers them to the floor, his hand slips on the spilled blood.

Crowley’s head rolls and rolls and rolls in its grotesqueness until it hits the kitchen counter, facing it. Not very graceful, Abaddon thinks as she quickly undresses them both, but Crowley had never been graceful.

And sex has never felt this good.

“We can be together, now,” she whispers her sweet poison into his ear, and her palms rested against his chest, she basks in his loyalty and her lips tremble in the anticipation of finally having an equal.

 

 

**vii.**

Abaddon is not a vampire and if she could, she would for sure wipe out that disgusting breed of ugliness altogether. But when she drinks Dean’s blood, it tastes delicious, and she would like to fill a cup and drink from it and refill it and drink from it.

Dean’s true face, burdened with his past and his actions after truly waking up, is scarred in an ugly, breathtaking way and she adores watching his mouth open and water as she herself pours a few drops of her down his throat.

My queen, he thinks and in their new bond she hears him clearly, and she purrs like a cat. Everything beautiful—violence and the urge to commit to it that tie the insides together, hide it in a gorgeous body—lies beside her with outstretched arms she can slip her naked body into, and she does so willingly.

Not even Lucifer could take Dean’s place, and if he tried, they could conquer him easily, and she would hold Dean’s hand steady as he would drive it through the Devil’s heart.

 

 

_if the cold that he feels from the tips of his queen’s fingers as she sits on the metaphorical throne and reigns over her rich in numbers squad of little dirty demons is hell than hell it is for him, and he likes the simplicity of it that fills him with inhumane thoughts and he likes the writhing of the souls on the rack as he has always liked it and through the hands of tired puppets he will torture and he will spill the details of every shredded heart into his queen’s mouth and he will let her suck on the mark and he will like it as much as he likes the life and want and the precision of a kill that bubbles inside him, and perhaps he will soon feed her the blood of another winchester she now desires and his knees will be her throne forever, and let it be known that he will carry her._


End file.
